


Semper Vigilans

by lux_permanet



Category: Pablo Schreiber
Genre: AU, F/M, Partners to Lovers, enjoy the corruption, police officer, the giant is on board, wake up and smell the justice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 02:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15742293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lux_permanet/pseuds/lux_permanet
Summary: AU where Pablo is a police officer who has 99 problems and his new partner is only half of them. Will they get along or kill each other while corruption thrives in the city?(The name 'Lewis Rivers' comes from two of the roles he'd played and I find it matches him perfectly in this alternate reality)





	Semper Vigilans

**Author's Note:**

> 10-8, police code for 'in service'

Some would call me an idealist and I'd have to accept the fact that they're not entirely wrong. I still believe in good and I'm trying my very best to believe in the path I'm walking on. The uniform and what it stands for. What it should represent. But idealism is a double-sided weapon in a world where 'good' is nothing but a sentimental synonym for beneficial. I stopped having a purpose as soon as my idealism has turned out to be nothing more but delusion. That's the problem about doing your best. Once you realize you're being used they'll shit on you for not giving your all, when technically I've already given everything I had. The heartwarming cliché about the correlation between endings and beginnings doesn't do much when I'm supposed to build my life up once again from scratch. I'm too young to give up but way too old to start all over. It doesn't matter whether it's Atlanta or San Diego, every department is the same. I'm not feeling sorry for having to move across the country to take over the place of a freshly retired, fifty-something-year-old man in an experimental unit, that might not even last another year for the sake of being able to work. I'm feeling sorry for the time I waisted on putting up with things and people I should've never put up with in the first place.

If I'd go higher than the 4th floor in this building, I'd probably take the chance to go deeper into a reminiscence about the mistakes I've hoarded in the past thirty years, but the elevator is already standing still, opening its doors for me to expose the route I'm expected to take. There's something liberating about not having an option. The oddly satisfying lack of possibilities where you no longer set your own direction, for it has already been set for you.

A small group of uniformed officers passes me by, one of them casually nods at me while another gushes over the sophistication of artisan whiskey tasting. Must be a typical Monday morning scenery. The grating, ungodly falsetto shouting gives the place a rather exotic soundscape, pleasant as nails on a chalkboard at such a grim hour of the day. The words are slurred but the rage is clear and present, all the way from the other side of the corridor. My steps are echoing back from the walls, just like they did last week when I was here to settle the reassignment.

I enter the room only to feel immediately worried about a handful of men. It's like a group therapy session for unsought vasectomy patients. The door closes behind me and the only reason I bother with an introduction is nothing but decency. They're lost in the heat of their conversation. It's a barren discourse with all four of them talking at the same time as the screaming gently intensifies in the opposite room. Out of pure curiosity, I open and close the door once again, this time with a little less delicacy just to get the same, deplorable result. It's safe to say I'm slightly offended by the total lack of interest, considering what I'm normally used to. My head turns from left to right, back and forth as if I'm sitting in the front row at the US Open while the men keep cutting each other off. They're concerned, even the blind can see. I offer myself a seat at the nearest, deserted looking desk, flipping through the file on top of it before pushing it aside. There's a tall glass of ultra-green smoothie within arm's reach, waiting to be consumed by the owner of the table. The magic of California. Only here can you balance out the nutritional value of half a pound of kale with half a dozen chocolate cupcakes. I wonder which one is the fake smoothie drinker, but at this point, it could be any one of them.

A hurricane rips the door open and storms inside the office, pushing the therapy group into an instant meltdown. They get on their feet and flock around the human tornado, increasing the level of distress even further. The owner of the headache-inducing falsetto runs right behind in a heart-wrenching struggle to exceed the already massive cacophony, shouting at the hurricane's back with an impressive vocal work. Now, this is a performance. There's not much I can make out of the insane group chat, and truth to be told, I don't even care but it's hard to remain impartial when my name leaves Falsetto's mouth for the third time in less than a minute. I'm only a tiny bit hurt about him making it sound like a curse word but looking at the situation, something tells me that's exactly how he's intending it to be. It's an open provocation. I have the slight inkling that my popularity index is sort of low at the moment and I've may or may not earned the 'brand new favorite villain' title upon arrival. Not to be insensitive but what I see is male solidarity at its finest. They converge so beautifully, it makes me shed a single tear of sympathy. If only the setting wouldn't feel so awfully familiar. Infuriatingly enough, I like to reserve the right to offer at least one solid reason as the foundation of contempt. While it's still impossible to get through their visual filter, I reckon it's time to introduce myself once again, in hopes of reducing the harsh distance between us. If the civilized approach is not adequate enough, the brute will be efficient.

I close the door. Gently, with a foot. The blinds fall violently to the dark green linoleum as soon as the frame stops the momentum with a brain-shattering bang. Falsetto chokes on the last syllable of his exalted speech, hands flying around his head clumsily as if they could protect him from the unexpected assault. It takes one second too long for him to sort out the situation, barely a second too late to correct the movement and make it look as casual as a random limb spasm. I'm not a fan of theatrical entries but then being thoroughly ignored doesn't make my dopamine levels go all over the place either. Six men stare at me for a long, intimate moment. So far so good, Atlanta might have been a tragedy but this city is a joke. Unfortunately for them, a significant percentage of my sense of humor is still laying around unpacked at the bottom of a box in my new place and I’m having relatively little fun. My focus is fixed on the Tornado, mostly because he takes up a considerable part of my visual field both vertically and horizontally. His expression mirrors minimal amusement, looking at me like I’ve trampled his castle in the sandbox. His eyes shift from me to the man on his right, the infuriated owner of the hair-raising voice, the only person in the room I’m familiar with. Robbins, the chief of this circus. He’s got a special power that makes him weirdly unremarkable in every possible way. So much so that ten minutes from now I would be unable to describe him for a portrait, minus the hypnotizing teal colored dress shirt, which is a bold choice, to say the least. There’s no point in judging a book by his fashion choices, I’ve seen men making terrible decisions in thousand dollar suits. I’m judging Falsetto by the uncanny smirk that’s slowly spreading across his face. With a hint of green face paint, he could apply to steal Christmas.

Falsetto takes a deep breath and I acknowledge the hint before disregarding it. He’s still in the midst of the same inhale when I approach the Hurricane with two long steps, reaching out and handing him the glass of angry, green gunk. He takes it without batting an eyelash as we engage in a semi-intense staring contest. He’s a giant. He’d love to use that to his advantage but I’m far from Falsetto’s rather compact size even if I’m still only in chin height.

“Jade Leroy.” I love flashing bright smiles at people who don’t like me. It’s my third favorite kink right after justice and leather jackets.

“Your new partner, Rivers.”

 

* * *

 

 The Giant is miffed and makes sure I get the notion thoroughly. Our mute disagreement starts right here since I’m not willing to take responsibility for his lousy mood. It’s his very own problem, therefore he might as well marinade in it for as long as he pleases. At the tender age of 40, one would think he’d get over how it goes on this slut of a planet, but turns out this past hour was only a mild warm up, and now he’s ready to bring the inner monologue to the outside world. Must be my resting nice face misleading him into thinking that I might be responsive to his lofty speech about how long he’s been a lonely cowboy on the job, the countless imbeciles he’s repeatedly forced to put up with, his wide and arborescent knowledge about the city and its inhabitants. Unlike me, who knows absolutely nothing of this holy soil. I’m not allowed to answer the radio, I can’t touch the onboard computer and I should definitely not even imagine taking my gun out of the holster. Supposedly, listening to the widescreen whining, however, is not only allowed but my only privilege at the moment. I can’t un-see the impromptu mid-life crisis he’s having right next to me and the biggest disadvantage about being a natural born empath is that I feel sorry for assholes too.

“Who frustrated you?” I cut him off, make a half turn in my seat and dig my stare attentively into his right profile. All with the direct endeavor to save him a 150$ on a private session, thinking about how many people before me have fantasized about reconstructing his main facial feature, that prominent nose that’s currently all the way up in his own ass.

Rivers is staggered, I can tell. He’s squinting at my side, visibly puzzled to figure out which one of us is the greater lunatic as we’re drifting through traffic like it’s anything but the cutthroat Monday morning breakdown. “Today or in general?” The guy is a goldmine of frustration. He runs a hand across his face, a fresh set of stubble buzzes under the touch and it only occurs to me now that he was clean shaven back in the office.

“I say we start small and work our way up from there.”

He notes the offer with a bitter half-smile just to put exactly zero effort into taking it. Of course, he’s a fan of dramatic silences. On the other hand, I’m forced to consider the possibility that the silent treatment is more of a prize, rather than a punishment.

We take a left turn and leave the main road behind. The black Taurus blends into the city without the ostentatious lights or lettering all over it. We’re unmarked. And that’s the whole point of it. The idea is to test out whether we’re more effective without selling ourselves out from a mile away or not. Whether we have the power to identify, prevent or react sooner while being nothing more than what we are. Regular officers on patrol in civilian clothing. In other words, nobodies. I try not to waste energy evaluating about how hard I’ve been trying to move on from this role for five whole years, only to be pushed right back into the bottom of the food chain with yet another man-child to foster.

The Giant turns off the engine in the jam-packed parking lot of what looks like the most retro diner I’ve ever seen in my life. It could be real or it could be part of a movie set, it’s hard to tell just yet. He gestures at the red-white colored building with a slightly pretentious move. “Welcome breakfast, just for you, Atlanta.”

“Thank you. Do you expect me to fit the parasols into my mouth as well or just the framework?”

He blinks a few times before turning back to the composition, measuring it carefully with his eyes. “Oh, they will fit.”

I don’t feel comfortable imagining him getting accidentally impaled by the pole of a parasol, but he has it coming.

Rivers is already halfway out of the car, dabbing on top of the roof to incline me doing the same. We cross the parking area to get to the entry and I let him lead the way, following from a few steps behind. He’s like a sailboat with that white shirt, sleeves rolled up, sweeping ahead of me like a one-man regatta because he’s home and I’m just an infiltrator.

The lady behind the counter lets out a soft little scream as soon as she gets sight of the Giant, which is not hard at all, considering that he barely fits through the door. The scene is further unfolding. She immediately suspends refilling coffee cups and rushes into the arms of the law, her head drops against his chest devotedly, cheeks flushed. She’s somewhere in her fifties, eyes sparkling, a thin layer of soft pink color on the lips, her pale blonde hair sits in a tight bun on top of her head. She’s a delight to look at. I extract myself from the public display of affection, leaning against the wall next to the entrance where I can absorb the incident and call my impressions out for letting me down in such an insensitive way. Rivers escorts the lady back to the pot. They lean close to each other while immersing in a short, private conversation. Great, turns out he’s not a complete troglodyte, that’s reserved exclusively for me.

He doesn’t entirely give up on enjoying my company, instructing me from across the restaurant which box to take. It’s not like I need tactical hand signals to pick a direction, given that there’s only one booth available with a ‘reserved’ plate on it. He returns with two cups in his hands, placing one in front of me, taking a long sip from the other. I’m expected to make a sarcastic remark but I don’t feel like playing the role he’d assigned to me. His eyes dig deep into mine, longing for the proof that he’s right. Thing is, he needs to refine the tactic before attempting to manipulate me into something just to verify his own theory.

“Thank you.” It’s the obligatory cat and mouse game. Running around in circles until something starts to make sense and the mistrust subsides. I won’t serve myself on a silver plate for the sake of the status quo.

Food arrives first and the extra surprise a few minutes later. The lady serves our breakfast herself, covers the whole table with plates and condiments. She wipes her hands into the apron in front of her dress and wiggles her fingers at me. I don’t know what is it about this tiny woman that emits such inexplainable warmness but having her around makes me feel nostalgic and unpleasantly vulnerable at the same time. Suspicion arises with a third mug and an added set of tableware. Welcome breakfast, my ass.

I’ve never seen a style so eclectic and tacky, it’s beautiful. I’m having a hard time not to stare inappropriately while the human attraction folds himself next to me in the booth. He’s wearing camo pants with a trillion pockets and by the look of it, each one of them is packed. There’s a t-shirt with Michelangelo’s ‘Birth of Adam’ printed on it in various neon colors under the half buttoned up Hawaiian shirt. All this, paired up with a yellow flip-flop, a massive beard, a bald head with only a single strand of hair braided neatly at the back of his neck. It’s not a man, it’s a vision.

“Morning. My apologies for the delay, these bureaucrats are insatiable.” A sizable, yellow envelope swaps owners over the table as if I’m not even present in the same level of reality as they are. The two guys don’t even flinch, I have as much relevance as a whore in church.

My eyeballs receive a thorough morning workout, I roll them as hard as I physically can. The only reliable company I’m having is the watered up filter coffee in my hands. “Help me.” I whisper into the mug.

The newly arrived organism holds out a hand but instead of shaking mine, he places an attentive kiss on it. “Gunther, yours truly. Didn’t mean to ruin the post-coital coziness.”

“It’s neither post nor pre-coital, although for the record, we both got fucked. Jade, nice to meet you.” I return the smile while the Giant giggles into his omelet sardonically. “Is there a reason in particular that forces you to be an asshole, or is this your natural state?”

“Am I being an asshole?” There’s a hypothetical list of things he shouldn’t allow himself to do. Asking this question with a straight face, for instance. Gunther’s shifting in his seat, his eyes wander from Rivers to me.

“I wonder what did I do to get myself written on your shame board?”

“Do you want salt with your waffles?” He inhales sharply, giving an edge to the otherwise neutral tone he’s using.

“Thanks, I’m on a low sodium diet. Let’s make something clear in case you’re having complications differentiating one thing from the other. I’m not new. I’m new in town.” By the look on his face, my dilemma is far from being considered as one of his own. He nods, nonchalantly scooping another forkful of eggs into his mouth, visibly unimpressed by Gunther’s wide grin.

“Well, we’re partners now-” The way he can make ‘partners’ sound like the filthiest, most offensive curse word without explicit struggle makes my heart flutter. “I’m obliged to take a bullet for you.”

“For me or from me?” He stops chewing. It’s almost as if I could detect a trace of recognition on his face, aside from sincere disbelief. “You know, this whole narrative you’re forcing so hard gives out the impression that for such a huge guy, you’re kind of a little bitch.” I can hear a familiar voice in my head being deeply unimpressed with me.

Everyone wants a piece of Rivers today.

His phone buzzes like a dying fly in agony. He fishes it out from the back pocket of his jeans while still staring at me intently. I’m not fond of being the jerk. I hate being the jerk. But I refuse to be overpowered just because he feels entitled to use me as a punchbag for his wounded ego. One look at the caller ID and his face transforms. There are probably worse things in his life than me. Whoever wants to chat with the Giant is rather persistent, sadly. The conversation is inevitable unless he decides to throw the device out the window and by the look of it, that’s exactly what he’s contemplating but eventually, fails to execute. Instead, he slides out of the booth for privacy and reluctantly accepts the call.

“Impressive balls, really. I mean it in the most respectful way but getting you down on your knees either this way or the other, looks like quite a challenge. It makes people itch. See anything familiar in here? You’ll have bigger problems than Lewis unless you turn out to be the problem yourself.” I’m staring at Gunther, trying to fathom the real meaning of what he just said. It’s not the introspection, I’m aware of my own effect on certain people. This urge to force me into submission. But that’s the irony, the more coercion they use, the harder I protest against it.

I’m having a hard time deciding whether to feel warned or threatened when the human tornado storms back inside of the building just to rudely drag me out of the peaceful ponderation. “Let’s go, Atlanta, I need to be an asshole somewhere else.”

 

* * *

 

I’d give it a shot figuring out what kind of legroom he needs but I’m busy fearing for my life. The seatbelt on its own fails to deliver a sense of safety that would allow me not to cling on the handrail with full muscle power and a wry face. We’re tearing up the road, Rivers drives like a lunatic and predictably forgets to include me into the informational flow. I suspect we have a good reason passing cars with a discreet 120 mph at a 50 mph area, taking approximately 10 years from the lives of every single person in the oncoming traffic whenever the Taurus cuts in and moves out.

It’s a quiet, suburban area. The only disturbing component of the otherwise peaceful scenery is our arrival. Rivers picks another pedal to put to the floor and switches from gas to break. There are a good two and a half inches between the Taurus and a black BMW that most likely belongs to a higher caste of officials. Two empty interceptors flashing lights soundlessly by the curb. The Giant kicks open the door and orders me to stay before rushing into the light yellow colored house. I don’t even have a chance to react, although he can read my lips through the windshield. I feel sick and it has nothing to do with the furious ride. It’s an icy, unnerving grip on my guts, and if there’s one thing I consider a pivotal component of my life, it’s trusting that if something feels fucky, there’s a good chance it is fucked up indeed.

Two things bother me as soon as I enter the building. The smell of death and the silence. They penetrate the skin and seep into my bones like some evil spirit, flashing images of tragedy. Something light moves in my peripheral vision, it’s white and big and stands across the living room. Rivers. Him and two other guys engaged in what looks like a mute but excessive dick measuring contest. Chests out, exchanging death stares in a smothery steam of testosterone. The closer I get, the less it seems like an empty competition for flaunting dominance. The energy swirling around them is fatal, making the little hairs on my arms stand up. I hasten the pace and make sure they receive my presence in time before one of them gets carried away and starts fumbling around waist height.

They don’t expect my presence. The Giant doesn’t because he still lives under the delusion that my only function is to be his obedient sword-bearer who devours every word he speaks. Which I would, for that matter, if he’d use his mouth to say something useful instead of hitting me with commands. He doesn’t make a scene, I currently don’t signify as a big enough bite for his appetite. I’m granted with a look of displeasure about my defiant behavior for good measure. The other two guys don’t expect me because they don’t even know about my existence. They look like the product of a failed cloning experiment. It takes a moment to adjust the picture but eventually, the spark of understanding flashes in one half of the duplicates’ eyes. He stares at me with a repugnant grin, unable to mend his unfortunate features. All the time, sweat and protein powder and there’s still no gym to help his face.

“Jade Leroy.” He turns to Rivers as if he’s waiting for the bottom line of the joke, eyes wide with entertainment. The gym-clown rudely defiles the gesture of my reached out right, invading my personal space without notice or permission. It’s not a handshake, it’s first-degree workplace harassment. His thumb strokes mine and I’m stunned how he doesn’t even consider me or the gun on my waist a threat. He hardly considers me a woman, since that would require him to see me as a human being. I’m more of an appealing collection of holes.

“Must be the eyes. Like the gemstone, right?” I cock my head to the side to get a better look at the poseur. He’s unflattering from every angle. “Rufe Leon.”

“Must be the chauvinism.” His fingers dig deeper into my skin. Whether the goal is to scare me or turn me on, he fails miserably on both sides. I doubt the show is designed for my amusement, guess I’m more of a dick extension to overpower the target audience. The Giant. Lord, grant me the composure to force the saliva down my throat instead of transferring it straight into the face of this self-absorbed monster.

Leon would go on entertaining himself until the next solar eclipse but being important is both a blessing and a curse. He has to emerge back into reality from his narcissistic trance. The coroner’s van rolls into eyesight, and the lawful owners of the deserted police cars wander around the window to silently inquire if they can suspend being invisible or not. Whatever this is I’m forced to partake in is way beyond my taste.

“See you around, Jade Leroy.” Leon struts to the patio door, fully aware of his own significance. His amorphous form is followed by the mute twin brother and my eternal disdain. “You take care, Lewis.”

He better does. It’s not even noon yet and I’m already in a desperate need of a shower with a wire-brush in hopes I can clean myself from the residue of this episode. I could work with a bottle of wine or a mean espresso but those are out of reach and question. So what I’m going for is the only available remedy, a gulp of fresh air. By the time I’m out, it’s already official, yellow police tape separates the property from the outside world, marking the scene of foul play. My eyes meet the officer’s monitoring the front porch by the entrance. I nod at him softly, like he did this morning when we traded places at the elevator. He’s busy recalling my face and when he gets the memo, a heavy mixture of confusion and shame urges the guy to look away. As if it could release him from accountability. Intended blindness, that’s what I like to call it. The illusion of flexible responsibility. You haven’t seen it? It’s not your fault. If you turn your head away at the right time, you can get away with anything.

I’m yoga breathing in the passenger’s seat until the great, white sail emerges from the depths of felony. He drops himself behind the wheel and scratches the insane amount of stubble while thoughtfully boiling with rage. It’s rather rude of me to further damage his mood, but he leaves no other options than going for it. I’d gladly adjust the timing to a good moment but it doesn’t look like he has too many of them.

I only get to take a breath and he cuts me off.

“You made friends with Detective Rufe Leon, Atlanta. Congratulations. If I ask you to stay in the car, could you stay in the fucking car? Do you think you can do that?” The sound and the view are out of sync. The nonchalant tone doesn’t match his tensed up jaw muscles. They sell him out as distressed and infuriated, over-articulating the words like he’s talking to a peculiarly rowdy kindergartner.

“No.” I give Rivers a reassuring smile. He’s astounded.

“No? 

“No. You don’t ask, you give orders. Forget about leaving me in the car, we’re on the same job. I’m either fighting crime or you, please don’t make me multitask on this one. Feel free to let me know what your problem is. You know, the adult way of solving problems, it’s called communication.”

“Nothing personal, all right? It’s not you, it’s the circumstances.” Not a single molecule in my body longs to argue with him but bullshit like this makes my eyes tear up. The single cheapest, most degrading excuse to throw around and call it an explanation.

“You can’t tell me something you think is appropriate to make me feel like we’re on the same terms, then act differently and expect me to understand. I don’t want to understand. Bottom line is, you either back me up or you don’t. But don’t lie just to make me feel less miserable. I love how you call me Atlanta because that’s the summary of all the things you know about me. Think about that.”

 

* * *

 

 “He’s an asshole.”

I rest my head against the back of the sofa, eyes closed, an army of fluffy pillows devour me. Intended blindness. If I don’t look at the unpacked boxes, they might as well stop existing and taking up an entire room. Stefani laughs on the other side of the call. We’re having a long-distance night out. Well, I’m having a night out and she’s having a morning out on the opposite side of the world.

“What do you mean he’s an asshole? Wait, what is happening? I’m running out of wine. Cheers!” I raise my glass to the computer monitor. That’s her, the only person who wakes up at 4 in the morning to ask about my first day and cracks open a rose without a second thought. I envision her in a flimsy nightgown under the northern lights like a goddess, her hair moves in the wind sublimely.

“Superiority complex. I don’t have the patience nor the crayons to deal with this, might have to reach for one of your crystals and cut it short.”

“Yeah, meditate on it!”

“No, I mean I could smash his skull with the amethyst. Not to be melodramatic, but he hates me and the feeling is mutual. Think he may be stressed out because of the sewage water he calls coffee.”

“Sweet. I’d say wait with the skull smashing, introduce the guy to Italian brew and see what happens next. Give yourself time, you can’t live in the present if you’re constantly afraid of being taken down by the past. Who cares about the asshole? Love you, Jade.”

The voice of reason.

Of course, she’s right, yet it doesn’t make the truth easier to digest. Moving away from Atlanta is one thing, but getting it to move out of me is a completely different one. Rivers doesn’t know anything, he’s busy pressuring me into the role of the bitch he dreams me to be. We’re guilty of the same thing. How do I solve a problem if I can’t put my finger on its origin?

I don’t bother refilling the glass and choose to take a long gulp from the bottle instead. Added motivation while typing the Giant’s name into the search tab. Who cares if he’s not my friend? Google is.

“Officer Lewis Rivers, SDPD.”

There’s not enough wine in the fridge to get me through the result. Thought he was an epic jerk, turns out he’s the biggest loser in the entire state of California. Touché, Detective Rivers. According to what I see, Leon and his equally charming partner are probably not the only ones carrying a custom-made bodybag with his name written on it at all times in the trunk. Drug trafficking and corruption in the law enforcement. Detective Rivers pulls the plug on officials in high position, gets celebrated as a local hero for a good 15 minutes by the civilians while his own kin spits in his face. I’m sure getting rid of the man would’ve caused a bit of a controversy but it also would’ve have been a lot less derogatory than taking away the title and putting him into a permanent time out. He’s hidden in this unit without a uniform or power.

 


End file.
